No, the earth was not created from a ball of fire-God had created the earth and the heavens. No, we did not simply “expire” like a fly or seagull. We were judged by God and sent into the next world, judged for the things we did and the things we should not have done. Judged, too, for the things we did not do and should have done, for the things we said and should not have said, for the words we should have said and did not say. He was content to maintain his belief in an invisible God and conduct his life accordingly, and he was sustained by this faith. And while Jack himself steered clear of churches or temples, save the occasional wedding or funeral, he deeply admired those who regularly worshipped.
He believed that honorable houses of worship were the moral compass that kept society on the right track. Sure, he had met some “religious” people who were outright bastards. But, so what, he thought. Religion itself, God Himself, were the eternals. Some religious institutions had their share of shame and fraud but for Jack they were first and foremost the core of the family, the bricks of civilization.
And except for one religion they all seemed to preach tolerance for others. All religions had gone through their phases of crusade and persecution, but only Islam still openly preached conquest and conversion, especially the radical Wahhabi sect. They were antiwomen, antifreedom, anti-America Jack sighed, bringing his mind back to the morning as he walked Eddie back home.
It was a beautiful day, the air cool and crisp, and he was looking forward to his daily bicycle regimen. He was not a triathlete like Maxine-who was already back in training despite the stitches in her skull-but he was up to ten miles a day now, and enjoyed the feel of the wind and fog in his face and the burn in his muscles that told him he was alive.
Jack pulled on his running shoes and went back outside. He had always liked to stay in shape. Some of the best weeks of his life had been spent at a private boot camp in Florida, where he’d trained in hand-to-hand combat and tactical survival skills. The camp had been run by former Israeli commandos, teaching Krav Maga, a form of martial arts developed by the Israeli defense forces and involving grappling, wrestling, and ruthless striking techniques. It had none of the dancelike grace of kung fu, jujitsu, or some of the other styles Jack had seen. It was simply deadly, and that was good enough for him. There was a saying at the camp, that “a man who cannot protect his belongings owns nothing.” That was true, and there was no greater confidence-builder than knowing that if your home were threatened, or you were up against the wall, you could snap a man’s neck in a second or two. It was a skill Jack hoped he would never have to put to the test.
All of these thoughts instantly vacated his mind, however, as he wandered over to the battered newspaper racks that lined the sidewalk near the clubhouse. That was where he always did his stretching exercises, but he froze when he saw the Chronicle’ s headline framed in one of the windows: SUSPECTS ARRESTED IN STREET BOMBING
The news was a complete surprise. The day before, he’d heard the first rumors of possible movement in the investigation, but he hadn’t expected something so dramatic so soon. And as he scanned the column of words beneath the headline, he knew he’d been right to be bothered by this case.
Dropping his coins in the slot, he grabbed the paper, scooped up Eddie, then went back to the Sea Wrighter and quickly changed his clothes.
Fifteen minutes later he was driving toward the city.
Jack had always thought that press conferences were about seventy percent public relations and thirty percent verifiable truth, but when all was said and done, this one didn’t even meet that narrow threshold.
Not that anyone noticed. Most of them were there to fill air time, column space, or blog pages. That wasn’t anything new. Jack had noticed mainstream media reporters becoming oddly incurious over the years. No one dug for information anymore. They simply regurgitated press releases or drummed up controversy in the hope of pleasing their employers, who were busy trying to woo back the viewers or readers they’d lost to the Internet and talk radio.
Real news was a rare commodity these days, and rarer still were real journalists. The image of the investigative reporter who let nothing stand between him and his pursuit of the truth was seen mostly in movies and episodic television shows.
The lobby of the federal courthouse was jammed with people who claimed to be real journalists, but Jack could only count on one hand the number of them who truly fit that definition. He considered himself among their number, but was sure there were plenty of his colleagues who would disagree.
The conference began in the usual manner. A mix of uniforms and suits, feds, cops, and politicians flanking a single podium crowded with microphones. The chief of police stepped up and waited as the room grew quiet except for the steady click of digital single-lens reflex cameras.
After a moment, the police chief said, “Before we get into the reason we’re here, I’d like to renew my condolences to the family of Officer Tom Drabinsky. His dedication to this city is unparalleled, and we’ll all miss his good humor and unwavering courage in the face of danger.”
A good start, Jack thought. The networks had all jumped at his tribute to Drabinsky, although most of them had edited the footage to fit their time slots, which wasn’t uncommon. As he expected, the name Jack Hatfield was never mentioned.
Several of the uniforms behind the chief were members of the SFPD bomb squad, and they lowered their heads in respect.
“A memorial service for Officer Drabinsky will be held at a later date, and the family has asked that the press allow them to mourn in private. I hope you’ll all respect those wishes.”
“Do you have that date?” a reporter asked.
The chief frowned. “I’ll let the family decide whether or not they want to release that information.” Several more reporters tried to jump in, but he ignored them and pressed on. “Now, I’d like to introduce Field Director Carl Forsyth, head of the FBI task force assigned to investigating this incident in conjunction with the Department of Homeland Security and the SFPD. He’ll give you a rundown of the facts. Agent Forsyth?”
Cameras flashed as one of the suits stepped forward. He had the crisp but slightly bland demeanor of a typical FBI agent. Jack immediately recognized him as the agent in charge from the night of the blast.
Forsyth expressed condolences to the Drabinsky family on behalf of the federal government, dispassionately listed the names of his team, and thanked each of them for their swift and decisive work.
Then he said, “You’ve all read the release sent out by our press office late last night, so you know that our agents conducted a raid yesterday evening of a compound in the northern California border town of Higgston. We took into custody several suspects we believe are responsible for the failed bombing attempt last week.”
The crowd erupted with shouted questions, but Forsyth held up a hand to silence them.
“Let me finish my statement and I’ll answer all your questions.” He paused as they settled again. “The compound is owned by a small paramilitary organization who call themselves the CDB or the Constitutional Defense Brigade, boasting about twenty-five members. As many of you may know, the leader of that group is under federal indictment for tax evasion and wire fraud and we believe the federal courthouse was the intended target of the bomber.”
“What evidence do you have of their involvement?” someone called out.
Before the crowd could get fired up again, Forsyth once again raised his hand to keep them quiet. “During the raid, we found a cache of firearms and several bricks of C4 explosives and detonators, similar to those used in the blast. We also found a file containing multiple photographs of the target, three city maps focusing on the downtown area, and a GPS unit with travel coordinates to the courthouse. A similar GPS unit was found in the wreckage of the Land Rover.
“But the real kicker is a witness by the name of William Clegg, a resident of Higgston, who earlier this year attempted to join the CDB and was turned away. He claims that the group has been planning this operation for weeks.” Another pause. “While it’s ultimately up to the courts to decide guilt or innocence, we feel confident that with the evidence we’ve gathered, and with Mr. Clegg’s testimony, each of our suspects will be spending a considerable time behind bars. I’ll now open the floor to-”
The roar erupted before he had a chance to finish his sentence. Forsyth calmed them down again and said he’d take their questions one at a time, then pointed to a sultry blond correspondent for FOX News.
“Have any of the suspects confessed?”
“They’re still undergoing interrogation,” Forsyth said, “so I can’t comment on that at the moment. Barring any
